


The Last One

by Nerdymum



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdymum/pseuds/Nerdymum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After searching for many long years for his wife's killers, Thane Krios finally encounters the last name on his hit list and prepares to avenge her soul.  This piece is a one-shot and will not be followed by additional chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last One

Disclaimer: This fanfiction has not been written or shared for any monetary profit. All names, recognizable races, and places are sole property of BioWare.   
Warning: The following piece of literature contains graphic violence. Please, do not read if you are sensitive to explicit descriptions of torture.

He was the last one, the hardest to find, but he was sure this chase, so many years in length, would be worth it. He stared down the glass of his scope and watched the large batarian barking orders to his lackeys. In his mind he quickly calculated the perfect time to make his move. He would need to be quick and pray that he wouldn’t be seen. At that very moment, if he wanted the kill to be clean it would’ve been the perfect shot. 

But that wasn’t what he wanted. He ignored the years of rigorous training that had been forced into his mind at such a young age and let the Battlesleep take over. He had waited so long for the chase to end, to be rid of the red hot anger that tormented him on a daily basis, haunted by dreams of seeing his beloved broken and nearly unrecognizable in his trembling arms. 

He wanted revenge. 

The others who had died by his hands were merely mindless followers, witnesses for the most part, but they were still there and played a role in her murder. They had to go. This one, however, with his barrel-shaped chest and his four dark red eyes, was the mastermind behind it all. This was the one who smashed her beautiful skull with his bare hands, kicked her in the chest hard enough her ribs punctured her lungs. This was the one who tortured her to death.

He was about to pay for that horrific sin.

The assassin crept quietly down the ladder and remained in the shadows until he found it safe enough to follow him down the alley. The smoke coming from the cigar nearly gave him away by the horrible smell and caused his aching lungs to spasm but he swallowed a few times to keep his coughing away. 

The batarian stopped, hacked out a large glob of mucous onto the asphalt, and started walking again. The assassin sidestepped the disgusting mound of greenish slime, a disgusted sneer wrinkling his delicate nose, and crept closer and closer. He balled up his fist, allowed the tightened muscles to spring into action, and punched his soon-to-be victim directly into the soft area of his right temple, sending him tumbling to the ground in a heavy, clumsy manor. 

He stooped down and began to lift the batarian’s slacked arms around his neck when another set of eyes noticed him. He smiled weakly and shrugged nonchalantly as the turian started to walk towards him. There was no armor or any significant patches to denote any mercenary group affiliation.

“My friend,” he spoke up and motioned to the comatose batarian. “He had a little too much to drink. I’m taking him back home to sleep it off.”

The turian grunted without care and started back down the alley. He breathed in relief that the story was somehow believable and went back to hoisting his victim up in order to drag him back towards the hotel room he was renting. Luckily it wasn’t far away. The batarian proved to be heavier than he expected. There was apparently a layer of muscle beneath the thick fat.

He propped him up on a chair and tied him to the back, skilled knots keeping him from slipping and escaping. He sat across from him and waited for him to return back to consciousness, flipping a sharp, narrow-bladed knife between his nimble fingers to pass the time. His dark green eyes burned with anger while he slipped in and out of the terrible memories of finding his wife dead on the kitchen floor of their quiet little home. He could still see the bright red blood pooled beneath her mouth and neck, marring the perfectly white floor tiles. He could smell the rich scent of iron in the air as it clashed with the natural smell of salt from the oceans just beyond the borders of the island city where they lived. The deep fear of trying to figure out how to tell his son, his precious little boy who was always so curious and never missed an opportunity to leap into his arms when he saw him, that his mother was dead and that it was his fault still felt like a lead weight in his gut. 

That had been eight years ago. He hadn’t spoken to his son since the funeral. 

The guilt was swept away as he noticed the batarian’s eyes were beginning to flutter open. A low, pained groan came from his four nostrils as he lolled his head back. The assassin sat still, eyes fixed on his victim, and continued to flip the knife. Here was the part where there would be the typical fighting the restraints along with demands to be released. 

He waited until the shouting and tirade finished before replying with his soft, dark voice as to why he was tied up.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked calmly. His victim’s eyes widened upon recognition and he fought with his restraints again, screaming for help as he panicked.

“Don’t bother. No one can hear you. These rooms are built for privacy, which is exactly what I need at the moment. Do you know why you’re here?”

The batarian huffed and gasped from the exertion he wasted on fighting the unfailing knots. A frightened expression crossed his wrinkled features and he began to shake.

“That was eight years ago!”

“Eight years, four months, fifteen days. Our wedding anniversary would’ve been today. I think it’s only fitting that I end my search on this missed occasion.”

“End? What do you mean end?” 

The knife twirled in his hand again before he launched it near the batarian’s head, nicking the very edge of his ear before becoming buried in the hard wood of the chair’s back. 

He shrieked in surprise and regarded the face of his torturer in utter fear. 

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” he whispered.

A cold, wicked grin snaked up the assassin’s full lips, exposing his sharp white teeth.

“Eventually.”

The batarian tried screaming for help again as he approached; a slow, sauntering gait only predators possessed. He jerked the knife out of the wood, examined the blade to see if there was any damage, then flipped it into sheath hidden in the dark confines of his thigh-length jacket. There was a breath of relief only to be knocked clean out of him when the assassin’s fist made a harsh, sharp contact with his jaw. Blood dribbled out of the mercenary’s mouth as well as two of his front teeth. Hot, throbbing pain shot up and down his face.

“Was that how it began?” the assassin asked in an almost emotionless drone. “Did you catch her off guard by hitting her beautiful face?”

Another quick jab was given to the opposite side, sending a mix of blood and saliva through the air. The batarian cursed and groaned from the aching.

“Exactly what was your first move? Maybe you didn’t use your hand,” the assassin paced before the chair. “Maybe you started this way.” He spun on the ball of his right foot and swung his left leg out high, striking him hard across his head and tumbling down to the floor. The tender, lightly haired skin of the batarian had been split open, and was dripping with more blood. The sudden brutality rattled his brain and sent a wave of nausea through his body. He retched and hissed from the pain of the acid burning in his mouth.

“Please, Krios…” he murmured weakly and glanced up at him through three of his eyes. The fourth had been immediately blinded from the kick, most likely breaking the orbital bone and severing the optic nerve. “I’ll do anything you want. Just let me go. We’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.”

The assassin forced the chair back up, not gently, and continued pacing the width of the room, knife pulled out of the sheath once again.

“Drell do not forget. Even if we could I would never escape the nightmare you transformed my existence into. You took away the one person who made me feel like I had some kind of value, who made me feel alive,” his voice remained calm but the growl on the edge of his throat deepened. 

“You killed our leaders!” the batarian shot back, wishing that his head would just explode and the pain stop.

The assassin turned sharply on his heels and approached so quickly the mercenary barely had a chance to blink before he was on him. His blade was poised over one of the upper eyes.

“Your cowardice murdered an innocent soul!” he whispered menacingly. “You sank beneath all manners of what constitutes being a civilized sentient and destroyed a pure and good life for no purpose other than you couldn’t face me one on one! Did you expect me to stand by and do nothing?!”

Tears began to drip down the batarian’s face. He spit out a more saliva, bile and blood and whined weakly.

“My men started to disappear. Nobody said anything. We-we thought that they got mixed up in some bad business. There was no evidence to suggest otherwise since the bodies were pretty torn up.”

“You should’ve known better, known that I was coming for you. Instead, your arrogance ignored my hunt for you. I suppose it’s all the better for me that you didn’t try to run and hide,” he turned the blade towards his ear. 

“I had my suspicions… I never said anything. Didn’t want to spook the others,” the batarian replied weakly.

“And yet you didn’t run. How unlike you, since you were too afraid to come after me personally.” 

The knife was slowly pulled down the cheek, leaving a faint line to trickle fresh blood. The assassin stepped away and examined the dark liquid on the once spotless blade. He flicked his black eyes up to the battered batarian, stepped to the side, and flipped the chair back with his toes. A hard crack of his skull contacting with the floor sounded over the crash of the chair. He knelt next to his face, noses barely brushing. If he wasn’t careful unconsciousness would take over and he didn’t want that. He wanted this disgusting form of life to feel the pain he was sure his beloved angel felt in the last minutes of her existence. 

He stood back up, walked towards a small table where he had a few instruments laid out in neat rows, and picked up a small, pristinely clean silver hammer, gently smacking it in his palm to feel the weight.

“Her fingers were broken. She had the most beautiful hands and the softest touch,” he mused sadly, memory flashing back to a moment when they made love. How brightly those lovely amber eyes would sparkle as he pushed her to a climax. She would laugh and kiss him at the end, curling adoringly against his body and rested her head just beneath his chin. He would never feel that again.

He grabbed the batarian’s right hand, fighting to keep it still as panic took over his captive. 

“No, no, please, no!” he pleaded as he sniveled. 

“You shouldn’t have broken her fingers,” he said quietly and swung the hammer down. A shrill howl sounded above the crunch of the pulverized finger bones. He let the hand go and watched as it trembled violently from the trauma.

“Do you want to know what other things I discovered you had done to her?” he braced the left leg up against the chair. More pathetic whimpers came from the batarian.

“No,” he shook his head.

The assassin sighed wearily and closed his eyes. He was whisked away to another happy moment. They had just married and she was in a beautiful red gown, golden silk veil covering her delicately crested head. He had pulled her into the center of the room and coaxed her into a close, romantic dance. She was laughing quietly while he kissed along the points of her frill, whispering how much he loved her. He broke the memory, swallowed the bitter tears that snuck into his eyes, and flicked his eyes back to the batarian. 

“She loved to dance. She was so graceful on her feet.”

The hammer was lifted and swung against the lower leg, snapping both bones. The batarian’s screams started to weaken as his voice faded from the strain. 

He stood back up and placed the hammer back on the table. 

“ Krios,” the mercenary begged, “I have a family. I have a daughter in the service. My wife…”

“You should’ve thought of the consequences of your actions. They’re about to live the rest of their years without you.”

“If you’re going to kill me just finish me now!”came the weak shout.

“That would be showing too much mercy. You never showed her any, did you?”

“Then do your worst, drell! Do whatever the fuck you have planned! May your soul be damned for eternity!” he spat feebly as the assassin return to stand at his side.

“Too late for that. It already is,” he whispered and kicked his knees, shattering them both on contact.

He spent nearly another hour working on the batarian, waking him once with a bucket of ice water. There wasn’t much left in him and the assassin was quickly exhausting himself. 

More memories poured into his brain. At one moment he had to walk away from his torturing when he lapsed into a scene involving the morning of his son’s birth. She had fallen asleep but the baby was already proving to be rather active. The two large eyes stared at him from beyond the clear bassinette and he pressed a tiny hand up. With curiosity, he approached the infant who grunted and wiggled with excitement. He picked him up; afraid he would drop him or hold him too tightly. But, to his surprise, the baby cooed contentedly. He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently caressed the little face, tracing the black marks along his full cheeks which were similar to his mother’s. He smiled widely, allowed the tears to drip from his eyes as he greeted his son with a soft voice.

“I believe I’m finished with you,” he murmured over the rattled breathing. He turned back around and regarded the bloody, broken figure and bent down to untie him from the chair. The batarian lifted an arm with the hand disfigured from the abuse by the hammer, and flopped back down. He knelt by the head and lifted it, almost with care, onto his lap. A string of blood and drool poured from the corner of the busted lips. His hands encircled the neck and he turned his elbows at the proper angle, pausing for just a moment to glance back down into the face of the last mercenary on his list.

“Irikah,” his voice cracked as he finally allowed the tears he had so desperately kept from his eyes to flow down his face. “My love, forgive me.”

With a quick twist of his arms, he felt the vertebrae of the neck pop and the last breath of air hissed from the windpipe. He let the head droop down at an unnatural angle as he crossed the arms of the dead mercenary and took a brief moment to stare into the death mask of his victim. Oddly, he didn’t quite feel as vindicated as he imagined. After eight years of hunting and killing it was finally over. And it left him a tad unsettled. After all, what did he expect; her ghost to come to him, beckoning him to the Sea? 

He sighed and stood back up, deciding that he needed to clean up the mess he made. The body would be left to be found by the local authorities. He was sure that the mercenary would not be missed. The family, however, wasn’t his concern. They would grieve but that would be all. No one would come looking for him this time. 

He wiped the blood off his leather armor, gathered up his tools, and quietly slipped out the window and up to the roof where he dashed away into the night by following the shadows of the alleys and darkened corners. He boarded a shuttle heading for the space station above the atmosphere where he would take a ship bound for Illium. 

Earlier that day he received a message from an unknown source requesting an assassination. The target’s name was Nassana Dantius, reputedly a notoriously wicked crime leader. He may have been finished with his personal vendetta list but that didn’t mean there weren’t more dark spots within the galaxy that needed to be erased. He watched the horizon curve beneath the shuttle’s carriage and opened the communication console of his omni-tool. He sent one message back to the sender.

“Contract accepted. TK.”


End file.
